University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the 

FRANCIS  P.  FARQUHAR 
EXPLORATION  LIBRARY 

Gift  of 

THE  MARJORY  BRIDGE  FARQUHAR 
1972  TRUST 


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The  Two  Great  Canyons 


The  Two  Great  Canyons 


Excerpts  From 

Letters  Written  on  a  Western 

Journey 


BY 
Cyrenus    Cole 


Cedar  Rapids,  Iowa 
The  Torch  Press 
Nineteen  Hundred  Eight 


To  Mrs.  N.  D.  Pope 
of  Lat^e  Charles,  Louisiana, 

These  excerpts  from  letters  written  for  the  Cedar  Rapids  Republi- 
can and  Evening  Times  are  dedicated,  because  she  made  all  the 
Ways  pleasant  ones  and  all  the  places  happy  ones  for  three  men — 
one  of  whom  is  her  husband 


YELLOWSTONE  National  Park, 
Mammoth  Springs  Hotel,  August 
14,  1908:  We  have  reached  the 
first  hotel  station  on  the  tour  of  the  Yellow- 
stone National  Park,  which,  according  to 
the  legend  on  the  arch  over  the  entrance, 
has  been  set  aside  "For  the  benefit  and 
enjoyment  of  the  people."  We  left  Min- 
neapolis on  the  night  train  and  found  our- 
selves the  next  morning  in  the  wheat  coun- 
try, on  the  state  lines  of  Minnesota  and 
North  Dakota.  In  the  wheat  country  there 
is  nothing  impressive,  except  the  magnifi- 
cent distances.  As  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach,  and  that  is  very  far,  one  sees  a  level 
expanse,  covered  with  wheat,  some  in  the 
shock  and  some  still  on  the  stalk.  The 
towns,  also,  lack  impressiveness.  Most  of 
them  are  mere  wheat  stations.  Fargo  and 
Bismarck  and  Mandan  are,  however,  not 
without  commercial  and  historic  interest. 
At  Bismarck,  I  recalled  what  Mr.  Bryce 

7 


wrote  in  "The  American  Commonweal th." 
He  was  present,  in  1883,  when  the  corner 
stone  of  the  state  house  was  laid,  with  im- 
posing ceremonies,  General  U.  S.  Grant  and 
"Sitting  Bull"  being  among  the  honored 
guests.  Mr.  Bryce  records  that  one  of  the 
orators  upon  that  occasion  remarked  that 
Bismarck  was  destined  to  "be  the  metro- 
politan hearth  of  the  world's  civilization." 
Mr.  Bryce  says  he  asked  why  the  state 
house  was  "not  in  the  city,"  but  "a  mile 
off,  on  the  top  of  a  hill  in  the  brown  and 
dusty  prairie,"  and  he  was  told,  by  the 
enthusiastic  spirits  of  the  place,  that  in  a 
few  years  that  hill  would  be  the  center  of 
the  city  that  was  to  be.  But  the  state  house 
still  stands  out  of  town.  Many  hopes  in 
real  estate  are  unrealized,  but  let  us  hope 
they  have  only  been  deferred.  A  hundred 
years  from  now  all  the  open  country  may 
be  teeming  with  populations.  In  much  of 
the  wheat  country  there  are  no  country 
homes,  only  places  in  which  the  wheat 
growers  live  long  enough  to  plant  and  to 
gather  their  crops.  The  wheat  fields  end 
in  the  Bad  Lands,  and  these  would  not  be 
so  interesting,  were  they  not  so  dreary. 
On  the  Little  Missouri  one  begins  to  see 
patches  of  alfalfa.  It  was  on  this  river 

8 


that  Theodore  Eoosevelt  ranched,  equipped 
with  a  college  diploma  and  his  indomitable 
spirit.  One  ascends  gradually  into  the 
mountains,  up  the  Yellowstone  Eiver,  to 
Livingston,  where  they  break  the  trans- 
continental journey  for  the  Yellowstone 
National  Park  trip.  It  is  fifty-five  miles 
from  Livingston  to  Gardner  and  five  or 
six  miles  from  Gardner  to  the  Mammoth 
Springs  Hotel,  the  last  five  miles  being 
covered  by  stages. 

The  hotel  is  crowded.  People  are  com- 
ing and  going.  They  jostle  each  other  and 
rush  about  frantically,  looking  for  baggage 
and  worried  about  many  things.  Those 
who  have  "done"  the  Park  are  anxious  to 
get  away,  and  those  who  are  about  to  "do 
it"  are  as  anxious  to  be  on  their  way.  All 
sorts  and  conditions  of  people  are  here, 
the  aged  and  the  young,  the  rich  and  the 
poor,  women  always  predominating  in 
numbers  and  in  activity.  The  postal  card 
fad  is  at  its  height  here.  The  postage  that 
is  paid  on  these  trifles  ought  to  pay  the 
government  a  dividend  on  the  money  it 
has  invested  in  the  Park. 


II. 


YELLOWSTONE  National  Park, 
Old  Faithful  Inn,  August  15:  It 
has  been  raining  in  the  Park.  The 
weather  has  been  lowering  before  a  bluster- 
ing wind,  with  snow  and  sleet.  People  sat 
shivering  in  the  stage  coaches  today,  but 
they  tell  us  we  are  more  fortunate  than 
those  who  have  been  compelled  to  make 
the  journey  in  the  dust.  Mr.  Jones  and 
Mr.  Pope  came  in  dusters,  but  they  have 
donned  their  overcoats,  instead.  Every 
one  who  has  made  the  tour  of  the  Park 
thinks  he  can  tell  you  all  about  it,  but  the 
truth  is  that  no  one  knows  anything  about 
the  weather  here,  it  is  so  variable  and 
there  is  so  much  of  it.  It  is  clearing  now 
and  every  one  is  buoyant.  It  is  sunshine 
after  a  storm  that  makes  people  happy, 
especially  the  women.  They  like  sunshine. 
This  inn  is  an  interesting  point  in  the 
journey.  It  is  built  entirely  out  of  logs, 
seven  stories  high,  at  the  peak.  It  has 

10 


great  fire  places  and  a  rustic  dining  room, 
where  the  food  begins  to  taste  "shippy." 
In  these  places  one's  appetite  always 
craves  the  things  that  are  not  placed  before 
you.  Resort  hotels  are  the  most  contrary 
places  in  the  world.  The  name  of  the  inn 
is  taken  from  that  of  the  geyser,  the  largest 
now  in  action  in  the  Park  basin,  Old  Faith- 
ful, so  named  because  it  gives  an  exhibi- 
tion every  hour.  The  water  is  thrown  a 
hundred  feet  in  the  air  and  the  spray  that 
accompanies  it,  and  the  vapor,  are  beauti- 
ful to  see.  The  basin,  in  front  of  the  hotel, 
is  filled  with  miniature  geysers  and  in 
whichever  direction  one  looks  he  can  see 
vapor  rising  from  crevices.  In  many 
places  the  crust  is  thin  and  treacherous. 
Some  of  the  pools  have  the  most  delicate 
formations  and  the  most  exquisite  color- 
ings, comparable  with  nothing  except  the 
colors  in  precious  stones.  Some  are  green 
and  some  are  blue  and  some  are  like  morn- 
ing glories.  The  smell  of  sulphur  is  in 
the  air.  There  are  also  the  ugly  things, 
mud  geysers,  unwholesome  holes  bubbling 
with  and  spouting  out  mud,  like  toads. 
Some  people  insist  on  seeing  every  crevice. 
They  tramp  about  until  they  are  all  tired 
out.  That  is  what  they  call  " doing''  the 


Park.  The  poor  Park,  and  the  poorer  mor- 
tals !  But  to  me  it  seems  easier  and  better 
to  sit  down  quietly  and  absorb  the  spirit 
of  things.  The  mountains  clad  with  the 
green  timber,  the  rich  blue  sky,  fleeced  with 
delicate  clouds,  over  all.  It  is  a  great  joy 
to  be  in  the  midst  of  these  natural  wonders. 
Why  weary  one's  self  with  the  details? 
Why  make  it  a  place  of  weariness?  It  is 
a  great  picture  gallery  of  the  gods.  Here 
they  have  left  unfinished  the  work  of  cre- 
ation. But  people  go  through  it,  rushing 
about  it  as  about  bargain  counters  in  the 
stores. 


12 


m. 

YELLOWSTONE  National  Park, 
Lake  Hotel,  August  15, 1908 :  We 
left  Old  Faithful  Inn  this  morn- 
ing with  some  regrets.  One  could  spend 
several  days  there  with  profit.  The  inn 
itself  is  comfortable  and  the  surroundings 
attractive.  We  have  had  the  misfortune 
to  be  overtaken  by  a  party  of  excursion- 
ists, who  entered  the  Park  from  the  west. 
An  excursionist  is  an  uninteresting  travel- 
er. He  is  apt  to  be  some  one  who  is  trav- 
eling because  the  rates  are  cheap.  The 
regular  tourists  were  very  much  put  out  by 
the  overcrowding.  But  if  one  wants  to  be 
alone,  or  with  a  few  friends,  he  must  not 
follow  the  beaten  paths  of  the  Park. 

There  are  many  ways  of  traveling  in 
vogue.  The  easiest  way  is  by  the  stages 
of  the  transportation  company,  which  owns 
and  operates  the  hotels.  In  the  hotels  one 
is  apt  to  get  a  good  bed  and,  sometimes, 
a  bath.  The  food  served  in  the  dining 

13 


rooms  is  of  the  conventional  hotel  variety. 
All  the  supplies  are  brought  into  the  Park 
in  heavy  freight  wagons.  Most  of  the 
things  are  taken  out  of  cans,  but  a  few 
fresh  vegetables  are  supplied  from  gardens 
cultivated  by  the  hotel  company.  The 
milk  also  is  fresh,  drawn  from  cows  kept 
in  the  Park.  Cheaper  modes  of  travel  and 
subsistence  are  supplied  by  camping  out- 
fits. One  company  maintains  a  series  of 
permanent  camps,  and  others  use  movable 
camps,  carrying  all  their  bedding  and  their 
utensils  with  them  from  place  to  place. 
But  whichever  way  one  travels,  he  is  apt 
to  pick  up  many  friends.  Friendships,  in 
fact,  are  easily  made  in  the  Park.  For  the 
time  they  seem  very  real,  and  partings  at 
the  end  of  a  journey  seem  almost  like  part- 
ings with  old  friends.  It  all  comes  from 
the  fact  that  the  people  one  meets  here  are, 
for  the  time  being,  all  the  people  there  are 
in  this  little  miniature  world. 

But  we  are  still  leaving  Old  Faithful  Inn, 
so  far  as  this  letter  is  concerned.  The  re- 
grets that  many  felt  in  leaving  the  inn 
were  increased  by  the  disagreeableness  of 
the  weather  outside.  It  was  a  miserable 
rainy  morning.  It  drizzled  all  the  time 
and,  intermittently,  there  were  downpours 

14 


of  water.  It  fell  to  my  lot  to  ride  on  the 
outside  of  the  coach,  with  the  driver,  which 
is  a  very  choice  seat  in  fair  weather.  When 
it  is  rainy,  the  ladies,  and  the  ladies'  men 
always  prefer  to  ride  inside.  But  there 
is  so  much  chattering  inside,  often  about 
nothing,  that  a  quiet  man  prefers  to  be 
outside,  even  in  the  rain.  The  driver  is 
a  good  fellow.  He  does  not  talk  much.  He 
is  too  intent  on  watching  his  horses  moving 
on  a  slippery  road,  often  around  abrupt 
curves.  The  four  fine  chestnut  horses  were 
real  good  company,  so  intelligent  and  so 
willing  and  so  eager.  It  was  hard  work 
this  morning  to  pull  the  coach,  for  there 
was  a  gradual  ascent,  from  one  hundred 
to  two  hundred  feet  to  the  mile.  Plenty 
of  clear  water  was  running  in  the  mountain 
streams.  We  crossed  the  continental  di- 
vide, at  an  elevation  of  about  8,300  feet, 
but  we  soon  recrossed  the  line  and  found 
ourselves  once  more  on  the  Atlantic  slope. 
The  driver  pointed  out  many  objects  of  in- 
terest, among  them  Shoshone  Lake,  rest- 
ing in  the  laps  of  mountain  peaks,  a  beau- 
tiful body  of  water.  But  the  persons  in- 
side the  coach  seemed  oblivious  to  many 
things,  except  the  mileposts  which  they 
counted,  audibly,  with  great  regularity  — 

15 


there  were  thirty-four  of  them  to  count  to 
the  next  lodging  place.  And  it  rained  all 
the  time! 

It  was  on  this  part  of  the  journey  that 
I  learned  most  about  the  animal  life  in 
the  Park.  It  was  one  of  the  things  in  which 
the  driver  was  interested.  There  is  all 
manner  of  life  in  the  Park,  from  weasels 
to  antlered  deer  and  bear,  and  in  the  air, 
birds  from  the  tiniest  creatures  picking 
their  livings  in  the  pine  trees,  to  the  state- 
ly waterfowls  that  strut  about  in  seven 
league  boots.  All  the  birds  and  animals; 
all  the  creatures  that  crawl  and  burrow  in 
the  earth,  or  that  fly  in  the  air,  are  pro- 
tected by  the  omnipotent  arm  of  the  govern- 
ment in  Washington.  The  soldiers  who 
patrol  the  Park  are  the  only  ones  who  are 
allowed  to  bring  guns  into  the  preserve. 
Not  a  shot  is  fired  to  break  the  stillness 
of  the  surroundings.  The  squirrels  romp 
in  the  tree  tops  and  the  beavers  carry  on 
their  prodigious  works  just  as  they  did 
before  there  was  a  man  on  this  continent. 
Here  the  foxes  have  holes  in  the  ground 
and  the  birds  have  nests  in  the  trees,  and 
there  is  no  one  to  disturb  them.  The  re- 
sults are  wonderful.  The  birds  and  ani- 
mals hardly  know  what  fear  is,  they  seem 

76 


so  greatly  unconcerned  about  the  presence 
of  passing  people.    Here  they  find 

"No  enemy 

But  winter  and  rough  weather/' 
and  of  these  they  find  a  great  deal  during 
the  winter  months.  The  tinges  of  winter 
are  already  in  the  air,  even  in  August,  for 
winter  comes  early  on  this  high  elevation 
and  when  it  comes  it  is  severe,  the  mercury 
falling  to  forty  degrees  below  zero  and  the 
snow  piling  up  to  depths  of  ten  or  twelve 
feet. 

On  our  thirty-four  mile  journey  we  were 
shown  many  objects  of  interest,  pools  the 
bottoms  of  which  rival  the  rarest  flowers 
and  gems  in  their  colorings.  But  also  some 
ugly  things,  mud  geysers,  filthy  and  bad 
smelling.  At  noon  we  halted  for  luncheon 
at  one  end  of  the  Yellowstone  Lake,  and 
some  persons  took  boats,  making  the  rest 
of  the  day's  journey  by  water.  We 
reached  the  Lake  Hotel  at  about  four 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  tired  enough  to 
appreciate  the  comforts  and  hospitalities 
of  the  place.  This  hotel  is  one  of  the  best 
in  the  Park,  lighted  by  electricity  and  heat- 
ed with  steam,  the  rooms  all  cheerful  ones. 
The  meals  in  the  dining  room,  also,  were 
good.  The  lake  itself  is  a  wonderful  body 

17 


of  water,  considering  its  extent  and  its 
elevation.  The  tops  of  the  mountains 
stand  all  around  it.  It  lies  in  the  hollows 
formed  between  mountain  ranges.  But 
aside  from  these  features,  it  is  not  more 
interesting  than  other  bodies  of  water. 

After  the  rains,  the  sun  went  down  in 
mountain  splendors.  How  good  it  seemed 
to  see  the  light  flooding  through  the  break- 
ing clouds!  We  have  been  very  anxious 
about  the  sun  for  tomorrow  is  our  day  at 
the  Canyon  of  the  Yellowstone  and  there, 
if  anywhere,  one  needs  the  sun  to  bring 
out  the  colors.  I  have  heard  so  much  about 
this  Canyon,  since  coming  to  the  Park,  and 
read  so  much  about  it  before  coming  here, 
that  I  am  very  anxious  to  see  it  and  to 
measure  it  with  my  expectations.  So  far, 
I  must  confess,  nothing  has  exceeded  my 
expectations,  and  much  has  fallen  far  be- 
low them.  The  things  as  they  are,  often 
play  havoc  with  the  things  as  we  have 
imagined  them. 


18 


IV. 

YELLOWSTONE  National  Park, 
Canyon  Hotel,  August  16:  We 
were  not  disappointed  in  the 
weather  today.  A  rarer  Sunday  morning 
never  dawned,  not  even  in  the  mountains. 
There  were  still  some  remnant  clouds  in 
the  sky.  Fortunately,  too,  these  did  not 
disappear  entirely.  All  day  bits  of  fleecy 
clouds  floated  between  the  sun  and  the 
earth,  not  enough  to  darken,  but  just 
enough  for  contrasts.  The  air  was  bracing 
and  there  was  plenty  of  it. 

As  usual,  our  coach  led  all  the  rest. 
Forty  or  fifty  came  trailing  behind.  Ev- 
ery one  was  filled  with  persons  in  high  glee 
and  in  great  expectations.  The  road  was 
a  winding  one  along  the  Yellowstone  Eiver, 
up  ridges  and  dipping  down  into  hollows, 
with  many  a  curve  and  a  few  short  angles, 
the  rolling  and  tumbling  river  nearly  al- 
ways in  sight.  The  river  is  the  outlet  for 
the  lake,  or  rather,  the  lake  is  but  an  ex- 

79 


tension,  in  width,  of  the  river,  forming  a 
large  reservoir  for  the  waters  from  the 
mountains  and  from  the  springs,  thus  in- 
suring a  constant  flow  for  the  river. 

After  leaving  the  lake,  the  waters  in  the 
river  flow  on  as  they  do  in  any  other  river, 
leisurely  and  calmly.  The  water  is  won- 
derfully clear,  coming  from  the  snows  in 
the  mountains.  The  rocky  bottoms  of  the 
river  are  visible  from  the  tops  of  the  coach- 
es and  fishes  may  often  be  seen  swimming 
and  darting  about.  Across  the  river  there 
is  a  gradual  ascent  of  ground,  until  it 
forms  a  skyline  of  miniature  mountain 
peaks.  There  are  vast  mountain  meadows 
clothed  in  grays  and  browns,  autumn  col- 
ors mingled  with  the  colors  of  the  sage. 
It  makes  an  indescribable  color  and  the 
effect  of  it  also  is  an  indescribable  one. 
On  our  own  side  of  the  river  we  are  riding 
through  endless  beds  of  flowers,  the  kind 
of  beds  that  nature  makes  in  a  large  and 
liberal  country.  Their  colors  are  blue  and 
purple  and  red.  Of  mountain  daisies,  yel- 
low flowers  on  delicate  stems,  there  are 
millions.  The  flowers  alone  would  be  worth 
coming  to  see,  to  say  nothing  of  the  furzy 
mountain  meadows,  like  vast  oriental  rugs 
spread  out  by  the  hand  of  a  generous  God ! 

20 


The  water  in  the  river  is  green,  when  it 
flows  over  beds  of  moss  and  black  and  fore- 
boding when  it  runs  under  the  shadows  of 
the  overhanging  rocks.  As  we  proceed  on 
our  journey,  these  projecting  rocks  become 
more  numerous.  The  banks  gradually 
grow  more  precipitous  and  the  channel, 
narrower.  The  waters  grow  more  dis- 
turbed. Signs  of  some  impending  catas- 
trophe to  the  river  multiply.  The  waters 
now  roll  and  surge.  From  side  to  side 
they  dash  themselves  against  the  rocks,  fill- 
ing the  air  with  a  spray.  The  river  be- 
comes furious  and  it  makes  a  great  commo- 
tion. Finally,  in  one  great  dash  the  waters 
rush  over  the  upper  falls,  a  distance  of 
one  hundred  and  ten  feet  down.  Then, 
imprisoned  in  a  narrow  gorge,  seething  and 
foaming  and  roaring,  they  rush  forward 
until  they  come  to  the  lower  falls,  where 
they  make  a  spectacular  descent  of  three 
hundred  and  six  feet,  filling  the  air  with 
foam  and  spray  and  the  scene  with  glory, 
all  the  way  down.  The  whole  thing  is  God- 
like, that  is  the  only  phrase  that  can  de- 
scribe it.  God-like  in  power,  in  beauty  and 
in  majesty. 

The  lower  falls  is  the  beginning  of  the 
greater  glory  of  the  Yellowstone  river.  At 

21 


the  bottom  of  the  gorge  the  tumultuous 
waters  continue  on  their  way,  so  far  down 
that  what  is  a  river  looks  like  a  yellow  rib- 
bon. From  the  river  bed  the  gorge  widens 
and  makes  the  magnificent  spectacle  of  the 
Canyon  of  the  Yellowstone  river.  If  such 
a  gorge  had  been  cut  in  the  dullest  stone, 
it  would  be  an  awe-inspiring  thing,  but  cut 
through  rocks  of  the  brightest  hues  the 
scene  is  bewildering,  amazing  and  enthrall- 
ing. And  the  longer  you  look  at  it,  the 
more  the  wonder  grows.  What  at  first  ap- 
pears to  be  a  wild  riot  of  colors,  yellow 
predominating,  becomes  a  fabric  of  the 
most  delicate  colorings,  blended  as  nature 
blends  colors  and  softened  as  time  softens 
them.  There  is  no  color  and  no  shade  that 
is  missing.  There  is  as  much  there  as  the 
eye  has  time  or  capacity  to  develop.  No 
one  has  seen  it  all,  no  one  will  ever  see  it 
all.  Each  man  sees  but  a  fraction  and  a 
fragment  of  it.  All  the  eyes  of  the  world 
cast  into  one  with  all  time  at  its  command 
could  not  exhaust  the  possibilities  of  the 
combinations  in  forms  and  colors. 

Here,  I  thought,  is  the  one  place  where 
no  traveler  can  be  disappointed,  no  dream- 
er disillusioned.  Here  the  things  that  are, 
are  more  than  the  things  imagined.  This 

22 


is  the  transformation  scene  of  all  the  earth. 
This  is  the  one  great  masterpiece  in  nature, 
perfect  in  all  its  details,  endless  in  all  its 
combinations  of  colors  and  forms,  imposing 
in  its  grandeur.  As  I  looked  at  it,  I  felt 
that  nature  had  nothing  more  to  say  to 
me  and  that  in  the  way  of  scenery  my  heart 
had  nothing  more  to  long  for.  Here  is 
the  throne  of  majesty  in  the  temple  of  the 
beautiful.  With  unuttered  thoughts  in 
his  mind  and  unfinished  sentences  on  his 
lips,  one  must  turn  away  from  the  Canyon 
of  the  Yellowstone. 

Monday  morning,  when  we  rode  away 
from  the  scene,  a  dense  fog  hung  over  the 
river.  Others  were  coming  where  we  were 
leaving.  Our  day's  journey  was  back  to 
the  Mammoth  Springs  Hotel.  For  us  the 
Park  was  a  finished  book,  however  many 
the  pages  which  we  had  skipped,  and  how- 
ever imperfectly  we  may  have  read  the  few 
passages  that  fell  under  our  eyes.  Streams 
and  meadows,  cliffs  and  mountain  peaks 
covered  with  snow,  lined  the  way  outward 
bound,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that,  somehow, 
the  falling  of  the  waters  and  the  glimmer- 
ing of  the  colors  of  the  Canyon,  dimmed 
all  other  things. 


23 


SEATTLE,  Washington,  August  19: 
After  spending  a  few  hours  in  Liv- 
ingston, which  has  a  sightly  loca- 
tion, at  the  mouth  of  a  canyon  and  in  sight 
of  a  mountain  on  which  the  snow  lies  for 
ten  months  in  the  year,  we  proceeded  west- 
ward. From  Montana  we  passed  into 
Idaho,  where  the  tree  butchers  are  cutting 
up  the  last  remnants  of  the  white  pine.  It 
is,  for  the  most  part,  a  dreary  country, 
where  the  timber  has  been  cut  over  and 
where  forest  fires  have  left  masses  of 
charred  stumpage.  Waste  everywhere 
and  nothing  but  waste!  The  American 
lumberman  in  the  past  has  picked  out  the 
best  and  left  the  rest  to  the  desolation  that 
follows  the  man  with  the  axe  and  the  torch. 
It  has  been  the  working  out  of  the  practical 
American  idea  of  getting  the  most  money 
with  the  least  care  about  the  future.  It 
is  pity  and  disgust  and  indignation  that 
one  feels.  But  such  are  the  ravages  of 

24 


commerce  in  a  commercial  era  among  a 
commercial  people. 

The  next  day  we  reached  Spokane,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Eockies,  mistress  of 
a  vast  industrial  area,  reaching  up  into 
the  mountains  on  one  side,  with  their  mines 
and  their  lumber,  and  stretching  out  over 
the  Washington  wheat  fields,  on  the  other. 
A  great  city,  the  creation  of  a  few  years, 
but  to  the  casual  traveler,  more  or  less  un- 
interesting, broiling  and  sizzling  in  the  Au- 
gust sun,  treeless,  for  the  most  part,  and 
to  that  extent  cheerless.  But  the  volume 
of  business  transacted  is  large  and  the  bus- 
iness buildings  are  fine  and  the  people, 
grown  richer,  are  building  new  houses  and 
surrounding  themselves  with  the  luxuries 
which  American  people  everywhere  seek 
after  and  prize. 

Leaving  Spokane,  going  westward,  one 
enters  the  great  wheat  country,  a  plateau 
lying  between  the  Eocky  Mountains  and 
the  coast  ranges.  Where  the  railroads  run, 
the  country  is  more  or  less  rough,  with 
here  and  there  formations  that  suggest 
"bad  lands,"  but  much  of  the  country  is 
level  and  productive.  It  is  a  vast  treeless 
region ;  rainless  in  summer.  The  mercury 
rises  as  high  as  100  in  the  night  time. 

25 


When  the  wind  blows,  which  it  is  apt  to 
do,  dust  fills  the  air.  Much  of  the  soil 
seems  to  be  as  fine  as  flour  and  very  light 
when  it  is  very  dry.  We  rode  for  hours 
without  seeing  a  drop  of  water,  in  creek 
or  lake.  What  a  precious  thing  water  must 
be  to  the  people  —  in  summer  time,  when 
they  need  it  most!  There  are  no  homes 
in  these  wheat  fields.  Here  and  there  are 
scattered  hovels  which  the  sowers  and  the 
reapers  use  in  their  seasons,  but  no  per- 
manent abodes.  Wire  fences  are  stretched 
across  the  fields,  far  apart.  How  differ- 
ent it  all  is  from  the  farming  countries  of 
the  Mississippi  Valley,  with  their  well 
fenced  farms,  the  homes  of  the  farmers  in 
the  midst  of  groves  and  orchards  and  the 
grazing  herds  of  cattle  and  flocks  of  sheep. 
Here  and  there  one  saw  a  horseman  riding 
in  a  pillar  of  dust.  The  trails  of  dust  one 
sees  are  the  only  evidences  of  highways, 
or  of  travel.  It  is  a  great  wheat  producing 
country,  when  it  has  been  revived  by  the 
rains  of  winter,  but  the  men  who  grow  that 
wheat  ought  to  be  well  paid  for  their  la- 
bors. It  was  night  when  we  reached  the 
Columbia  Eiver,  the  mighty  stream  that 
wends  across  these  wheat  fields,  deep  down 
in  its  channel,  so  deep  that  the  use  of  its 

26 


waters  for  purposes  of  irrigation  seems 
almost  hopeless.  The  winds  .that  blow 
across  the  plateau  may  solve  the  question. 
Seattle  is  a  marvel  in  the  way  of  city 
building.  It  is  growing  in  every  direction 
and  in  every  way.  Located  on  a  great  in- 
land sea,  in  sight  of  the  mountains  and 
blest  with  a  climate  of  wonderful  even- 
ness, at  the  end  of  the  great  transconti- 
nental railways  and  where  the  large  ves- 
sels are  loaded  and  unloaded  for  the 
orient  and  the  coastwise  trade,  the  des- 
tiny of  this  city  can  hardly  be  overdrawn. 
Seattle  has  absorbed  the  major  energies 
of  the  American  northwest.  The  men  who 
founded  the  city  laid  out  its  streets  in  al- 
most impossible  places,  but  modern  engi- 
neering is  cutting  down  the  hills  and  filling 
up  the  hollows.  There  is  no  end  to  the 
enterprise  of  the  people  in  these  respects. 
Every  breath  one  breathes  in  Seattle  is  a 
city  breath.  Men  from  the  prairies  of 
Iowa  have  become  city  builders  in  Seattle. 
Industrial  reverses  may  overtake  them, 
they  likely  will,  and  their  winters  are  said 
to  be  atrociously  foggy  and  wet,  but  they 
are  going  to  make  Seattle  a  place  of  which 
all  Americans  will  be  proud,  one  of  the 
great  commercial  cities  of  the  Pacific 
Ocean. 

27 


VI 


SAN  FBANCISCO,  August  24:  After 
spending  a  few  days  in  Seattle  we 
started  southward,  with  Los  Ange- 
les as  the  end  of  our  journeying  in  that 
direction.  Tacoma  has  been  out-distanced 
by  Seattle,  but  it  is  itself  a  great  and 
growing  city.  Portland,  in  Oregon,  is  a 
city  of  older  appearances  than  Seattle.  It 
has  more  leisure  and  more  culture  and, 
perhaps,  more  realized  riches.  It  has  a 
great  river,  mountains  around  it  and  the 
ocean  only  a  few  miles  away.  Portland 
is  building  for  the  future  and  the  growth  of 
Pacific  Ocean  commerce  is  in  the  dreams 
of  all  the  business  men. 

On  the  way  to  San  Francisco  we  rode  up 
the  Eogue  Eiver  valley,  which  we  found  not 
equal  to  its  fame,  and  around  Mount  Shas- 
ta, grand  and  glorious  in  the  sunshine  that 
fell  around  its  snow-covered  peak.  The 
next  morning  we  were  in  the  wheat  belt  of 
California,  the  wonderful  Sacramento  Val- 

28 


ley.  In  August  it  is  barren  enough,  noth- 
ing green  in  it  except  the  fields  of  alfalfa, 
an  occasional  plum  orchard  and  the  won- 
derful live  oaks  scattered  over  the  land- 
scapes, always  with  the  range  of  mountains 
in  the  perspective.  Wheat  growing  in  these 
valleys  has  about  reached  its  limit.  The 
continual  cropping  has  left  the  soil  impov- 
erished and  there  is  talk  of  cutting  up  the 
big  ranches  into  individual  small  farms, 
watered  artificially.  What  there  may  come 
out  of  this  form  of  development  is  prob- 
lematical. Some  persons  who  had  lived  in 
the  valley  assured  us  that  the  heat  is  often 
so  intense  that  it  scalds  the  fruit  on  the 
trees.  On  the  western  slope  of  the  coast 
range  the  climate  is  much  better  for  fruit 
and  also  for  gardening.  Incidentally,  it 
may  be  remarked  that  the  American  is 
hardly  the  race  that  will  develop  this  form 
of  intensive  farming.  They  want  to  do 
things  on  a  bigger  scale  and  they  shun  the 
manual  labor  that  is  necessary  to  make  it 
successful.  Portugese  colonies  are  said  to 
be  prospering  in  the  culture  of  fruit  and 
the  Japanese  also  are  making  headway. 
They  are  willing  to  do  such  work  and  to 
do  it  for  wages  that  are  not  considered 
adequate  by  Americans.  Under  present 

29 


conditions  nothing  seems  to  me  more  hope- 
less than  the  establishment  of  fruit  farms, 
by  American  farmers  from  the  Mississippi 
Valley,  in  the  valley  of  the  Sacramento, 
the  Eogue  Eiver  or  even  the  Yakima  and 
the  Yellowstone. 

San  Francisco  has  recovered  marvelous- 
ly  from  the  earthquake  and  the  fire.  It  is 
a  city  in  the  process  of  rebuilding  and  the 
rebuilding  is  all  along  greater  and  better 
lines.  Old  Chinatown  is  no  longer  a  city 
of  rookeries,  but  of  substantial  brick  and 
steel,  with  shops  that  would  do  credit  to 
any  city.  The  haunts  of  vice  are  fewer 
and  the  old  devotees  of  oriental  vices  com- 
plain bitterly  that  the  "town"  has  lost  its 
"atmosphere."  If  it  has,  it  is  so  much  for 
the  better.  San  Francisco  has  been  ham- 
pered and  handicapped,  but  its  business 
men  are  striving  to  retain  the  commerce 
of  the  Pacific  for  which  so  many  other 
cities  are  now  striving  and  for  which  Seat- 
tle has  made  so  much  headway. 


30 


vn 

LOS  ANGELES,  August  27:    At  San 
Francisco  our  party  was  broken  up. 
Mr.  Jones  and  I  proceeded  to  Los 
Angeles,  while  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pope  elected 
to  linger  longer  in  that  city  and  to  make 
many  breaks  in  their  journey,  to  visit  the 
seaside  resorts. 

Southern  California  in  August  is  not  an 
inviting  place.  There  is  drouth,  and  dust. 
The  famed  orchards  are  simply  patches  of 
trees  in  plowed  ground,  the  trees  covered 
with  dust  as  well  as  with  ripening  fruit. 
When  we  think  of  orchards  at  home,  we 
think  of  beautiful  plats  of  grass,  with  trees. 
But  that  is  not  the  California  idea.  They 
are  far  from  being  sylvan  dreams.  They 
are  places  for  hard  work  and,  from  all  re- 
ports, meager  incomes.  To  pick  and  pack 
peaches  for  distant  markets  is  laborious 
and  hazardous.  The  vineyards  were  filled 
with  distress  over  grapes  at  six  dollars  a 
ton.  But  in  the  real  estate  offices  in  Los 

31 


Angeles,  rosier  views  of  fruit  growing  were 
to  be  had  and  that  freely.  Los  Angeles  is 
city  mad.  They  have  done  wonders  and 
they  think  of  the  future  without  dismay. 
All  things  seem  possible  to  the  promoters. 
On  the  one  side  they  have  ' l  the  back  coun- 
try "  where  the  products  are  going  to  en- 
rich all  the  people  and  on  the  other  side 
they  have  the  ocean  on  which  they  are 
going  to  carry  the  commerce  of  the  orient, 
all  paying  tribute  to  Los  Angeles.  The 
ocean,  at  Long  Beach  and  other  points  is 
beautiful,  restful  and  invigorating,  but  the 
great  ships  have  found  no  harbors  in  the 
vicinity  of  Los  Angeles.  The  harbors  must 
be  made  artificially  and  the  commerce  must 
be  wrested  away  from  San  Francisco,  Port- 
land and  Seattle  and  Tacoma.  It  will  be 
a  great  struggle  for  supremacy.  No  Amer- 
ican can  ride  down  this  great  Pacific  coast 
line  without  feelings  of  pride  in  the  devel- 
opments of  this  western  country.  It  is  all 
American,  intensely  American.  They  call 
it  the  Golden  West,  but  the  man  who  has 
to  work  for  a  living  finds  the  conditions  no 
easier  here  than  "back  east."  In  many 
places  he  finds  it  harder,  for  he  has  Japan- 
ese competition  and  the  climate  of  which 
they  boast  so  much  makes  men  lazy. 

32 


vni 

EL  TOVAR,  Grand  Canyon,  Arizona, 
September  3:      We  left  Los  An- 
geles yesterday  morning.    It  was 
without  any  regrets  that  we  turned  our 
faces  homeward.    California  in  September 
has  no  charms  that  can  be  compared  with 
those  of  September  in  Iowa. 

From  Los  Angeles  to  San  Bernardino  is 
a  matter  of  two  hours,  through  the  San 
Gabriel  Valley,  one  of  the  famous  valleys 
of  the  state.  We  were  rather  disappoint- 
ed. Where  we  had  expected  to  see  an  un- 
broken succession  of  cultivated  groves  and 
gardens,  we  found  half  of  the  land  still  in 
sage  brush.  Like  most  of  the  far  west, 
the  land  is  cultivated  in  spots  only.  They 
said  there  was  not  enough  water  for  all 
the  fields.  After  leaving  San  Bernardino 
we  went  through  a  mountain  pass  and 
emerged,  early  in  the  afternoon,  on  the 
fringes  of  the  Mojave  desert,  perhaps  the 
dreariest  area  on  the  American  continent. 

33 


Hundreds  of  miles  of  utter  barrenness! 
The  famous  Death  Valley,  400  feet  below 
the  top  of  the  ocean,  is  part  of  this  desert. 
It  is  on  this  journey  that  one  learns  the 
value  of  water.  Water,  the  great  alchem- 
ist, the  creator  and  sustainer  of  life.  How 
men  and  women  follow  the  water,  here  in 
the  semi-arid  west!  There  is  no  place  in 
the  mountains  where  a  bit  of  a  stream 
trickles  down  that  human  beings  are  not 
found.  A  little  house,  a  little  garden,  and 
a  cow,  all  gathered  about  that  bit  of  water 
which  is  all  of  life  to  them.  In  these  re- 
gions water  is  everything  and  even  real 
estate  men  do  not  sell  land,  but  water. 
A  hot,  dusty,  disagreeable  ride  this  is, 
through  the  Mojave  desert.  Nothing  of 
the  kind  could  be  worse.  We  were  favor- 
ed, too,  for  all  afternoon  thunder  clouds 
were  toying  with  mountain  peaks,  black 
clouds  and  vivid  lightning  and  the  deep 
reverberations  of  thunder  —  all  so  sugges- 
tive of  copious  falls  of  water,  but  only  once 
did  our  train  succeed  in  overtaking  one  of 
these  showers.  And  of  what  use  is  a 
shower  in  a  desert? 

We  retired  for  the  night,  after  we  had 
passed  the  Needles,  on  the  Colorado  Eiver, 
between  California  and  Arizona.  When 

34 


we  arose  in  the  morning  we  were  in  a  green 
country  again.  The  desert  had  faded  away 
and  trees  and  flowers  had  come  in  again. 
Strange  freak  of  nature,  that  the  clouds 
should  pass  over  the  intervening  desert  and 
drop  their  moisture  in  central  Arizona, 
where  July  and  August  are  the  rainy 
months  of  the  year.  It  was  good  to  see  the 
trees  again,  the  big  trees,  and  the  grass 
and  the  flowers  in  the  green  fields.  Our 
train  reached  Williams  early  in  the  morn- 
ing. From  Williams  it  is  sixty  miles  to 
the  rim  of  the  Canyon,  a  side  journey  which 
one  can  make  in  the  comfort  of  a  Pullman 
car.  I  had  heard  so  much  about  the  Grand 
Canyon  that  I  was  afraid  to  look  at  it, 
though  now  within  a  stone's  throw  of  it  — 
afraid  of  being  disappointed.  The  disillu- 
sionments  had  been  so  many  on  this  west- 
ern journey,  so  many  things  had  proved  to 
be  less  than  they  had  been  reported  in  the 
guide  books  and  in  the  letters  of  travelers 
that  I  was  minded  to  save  one  dreamed 
of  great  thing  from  the  wrecks  of  travel, 
at  least  a  little  while  longer.  So  we  sat 
down  to  breakfast  first  —  the  Grand  Can- 
yon would  wait. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning,  the  heavens 
filled  with  sunshine,  with  just  enough  of 

35 


autumn  in  it  to  give  it  a  dreamy  effect. 
Fifty  steps  from  the  hotel  brought  us  to 
the  rim  of  the  canyon.  Those  fifty  steps 
took  one  into  a  new  world.  Unlike  moun- 
tains and  oceans,  unlike  anything  else  in 
the  world,  is  this  first  view  of  the  great 
gorge  which  is  called  the  Grand  Canyon 
of  the  Colorado  Eiver.  In  that  first  mo- 
ment one  is  bewildered  —  and  still  disap- 
pointed. One  had  anticipated  a  more  in- 
stantaneous grandeur.  But  what  is  a  first 
look  here?  Nothing,  we  learned  after- 
wards. It  is  nothing  more  than  a  blind- 
ing of  the  eyes,  a  numbing  of  the  senses. 
Before  one  lies  an  unutterable  immensity 
of  things  that  is  appalling.  You  think  you 
see  everything,  and  yet  you  see  nothing. 
You  simply  realize  that  you  are  looking 
on  something  that  is  beyond  you,  out  of 
your  grasp,  out  of  your  reach,  beyond  your 
comprehension.  There  is  a  certain  dizzi- 
ness in  the  air  that  you  look  through.  The 
earth  has  suddenly  opened  up  before  you 
and  instead  of  seeing  mountains  lifted  in 
the  air  you  see  them  in  the  earth  beneath 
you.  Everything  is  at  first  without  form 
and  void.  It  is  a  dream,  a  fantasy  of  the 
mind.  But  as  you  linger  and  look  longer, 
gradually  things  begin  to  assume  forms 

36 


and  shapes  and  they  begin  to  be  real.  Ob- 
jects begin  to  express  themselves  in  colors 
also,  in  great  masses  of  colors,  all  colors 
and  all  variations  of  all  colors.  It  is  a 
creation  that  is  going  on  before  you.  The 
void  begins  to  be  filled  with  all  manner  of 
formations.  It  is  some  such  hour  as  when 
God  said,  "Let  there  be  light,  and  there 
was  light. "  In  those  first  moments  we  are 
present  at  another  creation,  and  it  is  a 
creation,  that  is  enacted  for  every  one  who 
comes  to  partake  of  the  glories  of  this  can- 
yon. To  attempt  to  describe  it  further 
would  be  like  trying  to  weave  a  garland 
of  roses  around  a  star. 

The  learned  of  the  world,  the  poets,  the 
painters  and  the  writers  have  lingered  on 
this  same  rim,  not  for  a  day,  but  for  weeks, 
charmed,  fascinated,  bewildered,  enthrall- 
ed, but  without  being  able  to  reproduce 
either  in  colors  or  in  words  what  they  saw. 
Each  one  has  picked  up  a  bit  of  color, 
where  there  are  oceans  of  color.  The  sci- 
entist knows  that  through  countless  ages 
the  waters  of  the  Colorado  Eiver  have  cut 
this  gorge  into  the  earth,  through  the  solid 
rock  and  the  drifting  sand  alike.  It  is  a 
mile  deep,  thirteen  miles  from  rim  to  rim 
and  over  two  hundred  miles  long.  At  the 

37 


bottom  of  the  gorge  flows  the  creator  of 
this  wonderful  masterpiece  of  nature,  the 
Colorado  Eiver.  It  is  a  dashing,  roaring 
river,  maddened  in  its  fury  to  get  to  the 
level  of  the  ocean,  through  unnumbered  ob- 
structions, but  of  all  the  fury  with  which 
it  lashes  its  sides,  there  is  not  a  murmur 
that  reaches  you  standing  at  the  rim  of  the 
canyon  —  the  river  is  a  mile  below  you  and 
six  miles  away.  The  deathlike  stillness  of 
dead  ages  hangs  over  the  canyon.  Before 
Christ  was,  before  Adam  was,  this  work 
was  completed.  Still  a  mighty  river,  in 
those  primeval  days  the  Colorado  must 
have  been  infinitely  mightier  to  have  re- 
moved the  mountains  that  stood  in  its 
course.  To  wear  away  the  solid  stone,  dis- 
integrate it  and,  in  solution,  to  carry  it 
with  its  own  waters  to  the  ocean,  that  was 
the  work  that  the  Colorado  Eiver  had  to 
perform  to  make  this  bed  for  itself.  In  the 
Mojave  desert  the  thought  came  to  us,  how 
precious  is  water,  the  life  of  the  world; 
here  the  thought  comes  to  us,  how  mighty 
are  the  waters  when  they  are  assembled 
together,  the  might  of  the  world.  There 
glistening  in  the  rainbow  above  the  barren 
mountain  peaks ;  here  roaring  in  their  fury, 

38 


dark  and  mirky  and  foreboding  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  gorge. 

As  at  the  Yellowstone  Canyon,  so  here 
every  step  brings  a  new  view  of  the  canyon. 
It  is  not  the  same  from  any  two  points  of 
observation.  Of  its  mere  immensity  one 
can  form  no  adequate  idea.  The  opposite 
side  looks  hardly  a  mile  off,  but  it  is  thir- 
teen miles,  in  fact.  All  of  Pike's  Peak 
might  be  tumbled  into  it  and  hardly  make 
a  dam  to  hold  the  waters  back.  In  the 
drowsiness  of  the  afternoon's  sun  I  thought 
one  of  the  mountains  that  stand  in  the 
bottom  of  the  canyon  looked  like  a  huge 
pulpit.  I  thought  I  saw  terrace  rise  above 
terrace,  up  the  slopes,  and  fifty  miles  up 
and  down  the  river.  I  thought  how  all 
the  nations  of  the  earth  might  be  gathered 
there  and  seated,  and  how  an  archangel 
might  speak  to  them  and  be  heard  by  all. 
Not  only  terraces,  but  temples,  pagodas, 
castles,  battleships,  everything  that  one  has 
ever  seen  that  is  great  or  grand  seems  to  be 
reproduced  in  this  canyon,  in  such  varied 
ways  has  the  water  chiseled  itself  upon  the 
rocks.  Every  conceivable  form  of  things, 
every  imaginable  color,  has  been  worked 
out  in  this  great  gorge.  The  sun  goes  down 
upon  it,  throwing  the  shadows  of  ragged 

39 


peaks  across  yawning  chasms,  multiplying 
the  awfulness  of  things  seen.  The  full 
sun  can  not  light  the  depths  of  it.  In  the 
darkness  of  the  night  one  walks  on  the  rim 
of  this  canyon  as  on  the  shores  of  some 
unexplored  world,  a  world  still  in  the  pro- 
cess of  creation. 

Day  after  day,  little  parties  of  sightseers 
go  down  into  the  canyon,  down  Bright  An- 
gel trail,  on  the  backs  of  donkeys.  It  is 
thirteen  miles  by  the  trail  and  then  the 
river  is  still  far  below  them,  so  far  that 
they  can  hardly  hear  the  noise  it  makes 
between  its  rocky  banks. 

Many  had  said  that  when  one  has  seen 
the  Grand  Canyon  he  has  forgotten  all 
about  the  Canyon  of  the  Yellowstone.  But 
I  did  not  find  it  so.  Nothing  can  ever 
make  me  forget  the  Canyon  of  the  Yellow- 
stone. The  two  canyons  are  so  different 
and  so  distinct  that  comparisons  are  not 
possible,  but  contrasts  are.  In  the  Grand 
Canyon  the  colors  are  heavier;  in  the 
Yellowstone  Canyon  the  colors  have  the 
brightness  of  the  butterfly.  The  one  is 
compact,  the  other  immense.  The  one  is 
definite,  conceivable  and  comprehensible; 
the  other  indefinite,  inconceivable  and  in- 
comprehensible. The  one  produces  the  sen- 

40 


sations  of  nearness  and  clearness ;  the  other 
of  aloofness  and  vagueness.  The  one  is 
like  a  beautiful  woman  arrayed  in  many 
colors;  the  other  like  an  angel  clothed  in 
austerity. 

When  one  has  seen  these  two  canyons, 
the  west  has  nothing  more  to  offer  him  in 
the  way  of  scenery.  They  sum  up  all  the 
wonders  that  nature  has  wrought  in  these 
cyclopean  regions  of  the  continent.  One 
wants  to  see  them  again,  to  see  them  many 
times  again.  In  the  last  year  of  his  life 
he  might  desire  to  take  a  last  look  at  them. 
And,  if  in  the  providence  of  the  theolo- 
gians, we  are  all  translated  into  angels,  for 
one  I  shall  often  be  tempted  to  desert  the 
glories  celestial  for  these  glories  terrestial, 
to  hover  over  the  scene  where  the  Yellow- 
stone Kiver  tumbles  over  its  precipices  into 
the  gorgeous  depths  below  and  where  the 
Colorado  Eiver  roars  at  the  bottom  of  the 
canyon  which  is  the  creation  of  its  own 
might  and  fury. 


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